S L O B
by mimichanvalak
Summary: Versace-clad, Gucci shades atop his head, his silver-hair fringe always on fleek, Victor Nikiforov has never been a slob in his life. Naturally, one doesn't expect him to be drunk off his ass, half-covered in chipotle sauce the moment he first locks his eyes with the new, endearingly oblivious neighbour Katsuki Yuuri.


Versace-clad, Gucci shades atop his head, his silver-hair fringe always on fleek, Victor Nikiforov has never been a slob in his life.

But tonight's a tragedy.

"Let's play Monopoly." Somebody suggests.

"Beware, friendships break over it," Victor giggles, slumping to a side, his eyes swimming with tears of alcohol-induced laughter, "MASH, let's play MASH."

"What are you, Victor, a twelve-year-old schoolgirl?"

It's his foster-brother this time, sticking out like a sore sober thumb in this adult slumber party. _Adults? Who's an adult here?_ He claims, looking at an imaginary camera, as if he's in _The Office_. _Victor, who's only downed a pint of vodka and is staring at the lamp light with googly eyes, stripping one clothing item per hour? Chris, who has been trying to dry-hump the door frame for the last fifteen minutes? Those two girls, Mila and Sara, in the background, their arms entwined and into questionable positions? Or that one in the corner, Georgi, who's crying his eyes out over an ex that left him two years ago? No, thank you. I'm desensitized, and way more mature than all of them combined. Where's my fucking pizza?_

"Twister then?" Victor knows his sixteen-year-old gymnast brother will have the least qualms about this one, because Yuri Plisetsky will rather flush his own face down the toilet than lose out a chance to show off his flexibility.

Yuri grumbles in approval, but he says it's only because they need to reach a resolution before drunken Chris breaks that damn door.

And the game commences. At first, Victor's appointed the referee, but every time he spins the needle he spaces into the distance, so soon enough, he's relegated to the mat instead and subjected to angry Yuri's string of curses.

Georgi's woeful expression sets deeper and deeper against his frown lines and pointy eyebrows, even as his palm reaches out for the yellow spot. "Anya _loved_ yellow," is enough to send fat blobs of tears running down his face again.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Yuri stares up daggers from the terribly stretched position, "I swear next time I'm gonna fling all the vodka down the balcony –"

The doorbell rings without warning and the heap collapses, and spurts varying responses. Mila and Sara fall over one another and begin making out immediately, Georgi buries his head into his arms to assist his gross sobbing, Yuri stomps to the door looking like he's done with his life. For some reason, Victor finds his million-dollar worth silver-haired head falling into the chipotle sauce hilarious, and breaks into a fit of giggles once again. It's stained into his shirt, splotched across his wide forehead. Still funny, somehow. His brain sure is taking its time because a sober Victor would've freaked out immediately.

Then it happens.

It isn't the pizza delivery guy like Yuri predicted, instead, it's the most beautiful upside-down person Victor has ever laid his eyes upon.

 _Upside down_? No. Victor rolls over. Yes, better. And still beautiful.

"Huh?" Yuri shakes his head, "I don't know anything about it, ask the owner of the flat..."

Beautiful. So beautiful _._ _Ochen' krasivyy muzhchina._ It must be really cold outside in St. Petersburg at this time of the night; Victor notices the faint blush on the man's nose, his blue-rimmed spectacles tucked a little lower than normal so he can see above and through it, his brown doe eyes confusedly glancing at his watch. And the lights aglow behind him must've been the doings of the vodka, or else he's a literal angel.

"... Victor?" Yuri clicks his fingers before Victor's dazed face, "Sorry, this asshat is drunk right now..."

Victor's brain sure is taking its time. He's been an infamous playboy at college; he gets off at rejection: at one point in his life he has competed with his best friend Chris at how fast either can strum through short-term affairs. Whilst those were ride-and-die rebel days, in a normal night at a bar, he'd have already been at his heels smooth-talking this guy to his bed on such a gratuitous meet.

When the guy turns and gives him a short, nervous grin, it finally hits him.

Versace-clad, Gucci shades atop his head, his silver-hair fringe always on fleek, head drenched in spicy sauce dripping down his forehead, shirt stained with a big splattering, strange tears leaking out from the corners of his wide, glassy, drunken eyes, and drool dried at the corner of his open mouth, Victor Nikiforov is just a big slob tonight.

* * *

No.

No. No.

 _No. No. No._

 _Tell me it didn't happen. Someone has to tell me right now that last night didn't happen_.

Victor lets out a muffled, frustrated cry in the shower. Firstly, he lost a few strands of hair while struggling with the dried sauce. Secondly, he proved himself to be a bigger idiot than he actually is. He didn't stop at that; he provided a whole show for the crowd.

Yes, call him an idiot (only his brother does, by the way). An impulsive airhead who brings trouble before he can spell it out. Anything, but a slob. He plans his outfits weeks in advance; he made sure he attended last week's charity match in a carefully-altered Calvin Klein jacket that covered the unfortunate pimple below his chin, so that the paparazzi pictures come out perfect. Anything less than perfection is a sin.

And then someone attractive saw him last night at his absolute worst and he knows he's never going to hear the end of it from Yuri. Or Chris. Or Mila. Or anyone for that matter.

 _Breathe. Breathe. It's okay. I know it feels like you've lost the opportunity of a lifetime but it's not like you're going to meet him again, Victor. Everybody dips their head in sauce once in a while_. Or do they?

He wraps a towel around his waist and trots out of the bathroom. Everyone has left (Yuri stuck a note on the refrigerator that says "Going to get breakfast, geezer.") except Chris, who is lazily sprawled on the couch in his thong. Victor squints at the brightness of the morning as the light sends a throbbing pain across his hungover head.

"Had a talk with your neighbour yet?" mumbles Chris.

Neighbour? Neighbour who? The lady next door who plays a lot of 60s vinyls or the grumpy man below who owns a lot of cats?

"...Eh?"

"The boy you were gawking at last night."

The towel plops to the floor like a death sentence. Chris shifts in his position, casts a dispassionate glance at Victor's frozen state and turns the other side, "Pick up the towel, Victor. Your junk doesn't interest me."

On the slightly bright side, guesses Victor, their next meeting can't get worse than the first. He throws on a pair of sweatpants, cuddling his poodle that comes to nuzzle him at his feet, then reaches out to collect the empty pizza boxes, the remains of that cursed chipotle, and swings a wet rag over the dried mess of food on the floor. "I think I'm in love."

"... And here it is."

"I mean it."

"You were so shit-faced I bet you don't even remember his face."

Of course he remembers his face. It was the face of an angel, lights aglow in the background and piano chords playing at the far distance.

"Hey, Chris, can you be a darling and go ask him his name?"

"You want me to go hit on him... for you?"

"That's not what I said."

"Then do it yourself."

The idea is terrifying, _hell_ , stepping out of his flat is terrifying, because any moment can be _the_ moment, and Victor can't be seen in that impulse-buy of a T-shirt that says " _Boyz will be Boyz"_ that has faded around the neck – something that can quantifiably compete with the first encounter.

"Get off my couch and check my mail," Victor stuffs the garbage into a trash bag and fastens it, "I was supposed to receive the dates for the Bystrov commercial."

"Cereals?"

"Yes, fuck you," because popping a spoonful of soggy cereals from a stone cold bowl of milk into his mouth and managing to squeal a "Vkusno!" in thirty different tones until the director gets the one he's happy with is no easy task.

Trash bag in one hand, he glances left and right before waltzing across the hall, cross-checking himself from head to toe. His hair isn't on fleek yet, still soppy with water. At least it doesn't smell like the whole cavalier of spice anymore. He's wearing a grey sweatshirt and blue pants to go with. He's not at his best, but his clothes are acceptably complimenting his eyes and hair.

Now as soon as he gets rid of this hideous trash bag, he can step up his flirting game. The gods are against him today, however, as he stumbles upon a notice on the wall that says the trash chute on their floor is jammed since yesterday and is undergoing maintenance, and now he has to travel all the way down to the dump behind the porch on the ground floor.

The elevator is too crowded. Not that he can stuff a giant trash bag in there; he isn't sure why he even considers it. He dramatically rolls his eyes to no one, strutting to the stairs, his shoulders slouched.

Never has he been so thankful about sarcastically rolling his eyes at the heavens, because as cheesy as it may sound, he might have just spotted that angel again.

It's _him_ \- tightly wrapped in woollens like last night (Victor can tell he isn't used to the Russian cold), nose with that rosy blush, brown eyes staring ahead out through the small glass barrier - earphones plugged in, and huffing out fog with each step he jogs down.

Victor thought it was characteristic of just his vulgar drunkenness, but even his sober self seems to be staring open-mouthedly two floors up at this new Asian tenant of the building complex. He hasn't ever been happier that the building still retains an old-fashioned gargoyle-like structure of stairs. He's never going to remind the landlord about his notice to leave the flat, because, _fuck it_ , he's never thinking of leaving this place again. He could sit right here and observe him all day and strain his neck instead.

Maybe sitting down was a good idea, since the next thing Victor knows is that his foot has missed the landing of the step and thrown him off balance – off balance is an _understatement_ – it has thrown him tumbling down the stairs. Gladly the tumble stops after a few steps, and final thwack on his ass is cushioned by the saviour of a trash bag. On the flip-side, the airtight bag isn't able to stand the sudden pressure and explodes, and now, Victor is sitting in the middle of scattered garbage like the king of all slobs that he is.

For a while, Victor sees shooting stars. There's a faint cry of – " _Daijobu!?"_ – that seems like coming from a mile away, and he isn't sure what that means. Maybe he's lost all comprehension of meaning after hitting his head against the edge.

"You're bleeding!" someone says in an odd foreign accent, and as soon as the stars fade Victor discovers the someone is _him_ , his brows furrowed in concern, earplugs off, and hand held out to help Victor up to his feet. There are lights aglow behind him again, but this time, something tells Victor this might have to do with a concussion.

" _Ano, eto_... are you okay?" The boy pulls out a neatly-folded blue handkerchief from his pocket, and beating a split-second of hesitation, reaches out to dab on the small dribble of blood on Victor's forehead.

The slight sting brings Victor back to his senses. _Oh, shit. Shit shit shit._

He'd have happily taken the " _Boyz will be Boyz"_ t-shirt. Hell, he'd have happily taken death.

Why did he have to have that stupid slumber party last night? He'd have saved the sight of him covered in chipotle sauce, and as of right now, pizza crumbles and an unholy mix of cheese and pepper flakes, not to mention an aching ass and a throbbing head. Instead, Most Beautiful Neighbour Ever™ would've opened the door to Victor's suave nighttime reading glasses. Maybe Victor would've been able to shake things up over mug of hot chocolate. Who doesn't love hot chocolate? Maybe they'd have snuggled together in one blanket.

Instead, he did _that_. Worse even, he somehow managed to outdo last night.

"Do you need a doctor?" the boy's voice has a certain chime, certain soothing quality about it; he can ramble his biography right now and Victor will listen without complain. No, that's not the point. _Victor, focus._

"No, no, thank you," he speaks for the first time in probably an eternity, holding the handkerchief against his forehead. He lets his headache-induced high get the better of him, as he takes the neighbour's warm hand and pulls himself back to his feet, "I'm Victor."

"Nice to meet you, Victor. My name is Katsuki Yuuri." He is adorably polite.

"Katsuki? Such a beautiful name," Victor winks flirtatiously. Better late than never. Although he wonders if he just mispronounced it because Katsuki Yuuri just stifled a laugh against his gloved knuckles.

"Um, I mean, my name is Yuuri... Katsuki is my surname."

"Oh," Victor feels colour rising up his face alarmingly. This was perhaps the last straw; his first impression just stepped on the third landmine and got itself blown into tiny little shreds. He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his head, internally screaming when he finds a strip of Roma tomato stuck to his recently washed hair.

"Uh, maybe you should take a shower, Victor," Yuuri suggests, pretty much out of concern over his laggard state, "I'm new in the city so, um, maybe I can come by later and we can have coffee?"

 _Coffee? Like a morning-date coffee? Or like you're-always-covered-with-food-so-you-must-really-like-eateries coffee?_

"Sure," he says, "I know this great place right about the corner. Maybe there?"

"Okay, I'll see you then, Victor. I'll call the maintenance man to clean up the stairs if I see him."

"Okay, bye, Yuuri," he mumbles after him, a dopey grin on his face, " _YA by skazal, chto ty prekrasna, no ya ne khochu otpugivat' tebya na pervoy vstreche."_ Maybe this wasn't so bad after all, Victor concedes. Sure his favourite sweatshirt is ruined for good and he ended up with a bruise above his eyebrow which if doesn't cure fast might cost him that cereal commercial, but at least it's a _date._

It's a date, isn't it?

* * *

 **ideas in my head: angst angst extreme soul ravishing angst**

 **what I write: fluff fluff tooth-rotting fluff**

 **long story short, I don't know what I wrote except I don't regret writing it.**

 **Ochen' krasivyy muzhchina - Very beautiful man**

 **YA by skazal, chto ty prekrasna, no ya ne khochu otpugivat' tebya na pervoy vstreche - I would say you're beautiful but I don't want to scare you off on first meeting**

 **heh, they're translated from google so the grammar and structure might be stilted. I'll probably write two-three more chapters of this, so tell me how it was!**


End file.
